


All American Reject

by himboalfred



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Americas confused and Alfred just wants his mom, Coming Out, Fluff and Angst, High School, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25611460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himboalfred/pseuds/himboalfred
Summary: After an awful day, America rants to Tony about how unappreciated he feels by everyone. He wishes he was a human, and Tony makes that wish a reality. Unfortunately, high school senior Alfred Jones is stuck in the crossfire, and wakes up in the body of America.Will things ever return to normal? Or does America prefer the all-American lifestyle more?
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 137





	1. Make A Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :) A few things before we get started:  
> 1\. There are no other human counterparts for the countries that America will meet. The only one that's close is Alfred's boyfriend, who's British. (because we have to get the USUK rolling somehow, right?)  
> 2\. America and Alfred share similarities, but also major differences. Height, body types, and even eyesight. This is just to reiterate the first point, that Alfred isn't a human counterpart. He's just scarily similar to a nation.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy. I'm really having fun with this.

America’s day is the definition of an ancient proverb: “it went from worse to worser.” 

It starts with his boss waking him up an hour before his alarm, yelling at him to respond to the emails she cc’d over to him and start making flight arrangements for the coming weeks to meet with other representatives. 

Then, as he tries to shower, the water comes out freezing cold which forces him to do it military style. Which America doesn’t mind, but a little warm water might be nice.

Next, he face-plants his bowl of cereal as he trips over his own sneaker, which forces him to take another ice cold shower and change into a mismatched outfit because all of his clean clothes are suddenly missing. 

His new suit shoes fall apart, as he puts them on, which is just great. Sneakers it is.

As he tries to start his car, the engine gives a weak sputter and wheezing cough, then refuses to start. 

“What?” America groans. “C’mon girl, all my other cars are at my D.C. place! Please, please work…” He tries turning his key again, yielding no results. He glances at his phone and winces at the time as he runs to a mainstreet, attempting to catch a cab.

Of course, the first cab bypasses him completely–but not without driving past a puddle and drenching him. 

America spits out the dirty street water with a comical grimace. Time to do it all over again.

•••

America quietly opens the door to the meeting room, and winces as it slams shut behind him with some mystical wind that came out of nowhere. 

Every eye in the room turns to glare at him, and America gives a weak sheepish smile.

“Where have you been?” Germany grits out.

“Sorry I’m late guys, I had the worst–” America tries to start, but is cut off by multiple people talking over him.

“Late?” Austria asks. “Late is coming in five minutes after the meeting started. You’re an hour late, we’re almost done here!”

“You’ve proven time and time again that you don’t care about your duties as a nation,” Germany says with a disapproving shake of his head.

“Bet he slept in because he was up too late playing a shite video game,” England pipes up with an eye roll. France chuckles at this.

America frowns as he looks between the two, then at every other accusing eye on him. “Honestly guys, I’m not in the best mood. Can we just–?”

“I bet now that America’s here we won’t get anything productive done,” China mutters. Except, he doesn’t. He says it pretty loudly. And nearly everyone in the room nods, agreeing with him.

America clenches his jaw. “Fine. Fine! I’m clearly not wanted here.” He turns around and grips the door handle, pausing for the briefest moment. He waits. _Please, someone, anyone, just tell me you want me to stay. Please._

No one does. So America throws open the door and slams it shut, this time on purpose.

* * *

America flops onto his couch face first and sighs, not even making a move to grab his video game controller.

Tony, who’s sitting on the lovechair next to the couch, looks at America weirdly.

“What’s wrong?” Tony asks, noticing the strange behavior from his favorite sort-of human. 

“Dude, my life sucks major balls,” America complains. “I get bitched at for showing up late to meetings but nothing ever even happens in them! I have so many emails my boss sent me to reply to, so many international relations to “fix” which just means travelling and fake smiling and faking being stupid, and I’m sick of it!”

Tony stares, wide eyed at the rant. He’s never heard or even seen America like this. “Game?” he asks hopefully, pointing to the flatscreen and then the fallen controller. America’s always happy when they kill nazi zombies in that shooting game!

“I’m too busy,” America answers with another sigh. “I’m sorry, T.”

“Food?” Tony tries to ask, but America is too busy frowning at his phone. Tony peeks over his shoulder and sees the message app is opened, but there are zero new notifications.

“Man, I wish I was a human,” America mumbles, so quiet Tony nearly misses it.

“Why?” Tony asks, confused. He’s experimented on humans in the past, and they don’t seem very special.

“They have short lives, so they make every moment last. They care about each other so deeply, it makes me jealous. They just seem so happy,” America says wistfully, looking at Tony with a sad smile. “Us nations… We’ve been through so much, but that doesn’t make any of us closer. It might even have the opposite effect, funnily enough. I swear Iggy still hates me for the revolution sometimes,” he mutters bitterly. 

Tony scowls at the mention of his least favorite person. He quickly changes the topic, seeing America’s mood worsen by the second. “So, you wanna be human?”

“Yeah. Just for a little while, to feel what it’s like when someone actually cares for you.” America sits up and turns off his phone. He stands up and takes a step to leave the living room, but pauses when Tony grabs his pant leg and tugs slightly.

“I care about you,” Tony says. 

America blinks, then smiles brightly as he kneels down to give Tony a tight hug. “I care about you too, dude. You’re my best friend.”

He squeezes the small alien one more time, then releases him and stands up straight, and walks downstairs to his office. Tony watches him go, and tilts his head.

“I hate when he’s sad. Hm,” Tony murmurs to himself, then nods as he comes to a decision. He immediately vanishes into thin air.

•••

Hours later, Tony reappears in the living room. He immediately looks at the brown leather couch, surprised to see no America. On the wooden floor the controller lays exactly where it was dropped earlier in the day. 

“Merica?” Tony asks. The house is dark and quiet, which is surprising because it’s only eleven at night. America usually stays awake until three in the morning, gaming with Japan or Prussia, and ordering pizza for himself and Tony. 

Tony leaves the living room and glances into the kitchen. It’s just as dark as the previous room, with no sign of life anywhere. If he’s not on the couch or rummaging in the fridge, is he already asleep? 

The alien creeps up the wooden stairway, holding onto the bannister for support. The walls are almost hauntingly empty. He peeks around the corner once he’s reached the top of the stairs. The bedroom door is wide open, and the king size bed is lacking one nation.

“America?” he asks, worriedly. There’s no sound of a shower running, and the golden blond isn’t sleeping. Where is he?

Tony jogs down the stairs, nearly missing the last one in his haste. America’s car is in the driveway, so there’s no way he’s not home. Did a rival alien kidnap his best friend? 

Suddenly, a quiet snore sounds off from downstairs. Tony frowns as he tiptoes down the stairs, and hears another snore, louder this time. He walks past the gym equipment which is practically growing its own tumbleweeds, and sees the office door cracked open.

Tony pushes it all the way open, wincing at the creak the wooden door lets out. America is sitting in his swivel chair, head face down on his keyboard, the bright light from his desktop illuminating the room. Tony frowns and walks closer.

“This isn’t good for your back, Meri,” Tony says with concern. How many times has the nation fallen asleep like this in the past month? 

He holds out his hand and a weird contraption appears in his palm. It’s bright purple, in the shape of a gun but more circular with softer edges instead of jagged and rectangular. It has a settings dial which is bright yellow, and Tony adjusts it to something in a different language.

“You’ll wake up in a nice bed,” he promises and points the gun at the slumbering nation as he fires. A burst of bright lilac sparkles shoot out of the gun and encase America, almost blinding Tony with the harsh light. It vanishes in a second, and America mumbles in his sleep.

Tony smiles and covers the man’s back with a blanket. “Sleep well.” 

He walks out of the room and closes the door quietly behind him.

* * *

America yawns, stretching his arms above his head. He rubs his eyes and hums in appreciation at the tempurpedic he feels beneath him. Tony must’ve carried him to his bedroom after his short nap in the office. What an awesome little dude.

As America sits up in bed and opens his eyes, he shivers a little as the blanket falls, revealing his bare chest. 

“Kinda weird for Tony to undress me, but whatev,” America mumbles, then shrugs. He reaches for his glasses on his desk and instead comes into contact with thin air. “Huh.”

America blinks as he looks around the room. The walls are painted sky blue, a vast difference from his modern cream he definitely had yesterday. It’s filled with posters of movies and comic strips, with sports equipment in the corner by the door next to a hamper that's nearly full with dirty clothes. 

On top of the dresser is a bunch of awards and medals. He scratches his head and looks at the bed, noticing it’s quite a bit smaller from his king size, and the sheets are batman themed with a black blanket as opposed to his own plain gray sheets with a white blanket. 

The door where his connecting master bathroom usually is has been replaced with a plain wall that has a mini basketball hoop attached at the very top.

“Uh, Tony? Did you give my crib a makeover, dude?” America asks out loud, but gets no response. He hears noise downstairs in the kitchen, and assumes the alien got hungry and is making breakfast. At the thought of food he expects his stomach to rumble, but is surprised when there’s not a peep. He glances down and his eyes widen at the sight. 

“Are those abs? Wait a minute–” America squints as he looks around the room again, touching his face. “I’m not wearing my glasses… Why can I see perfectly?” 

America throws off the blanket and leaps out of bed, footsteps thudding on carpeted floors that were definitely wooden floorboards not even a day ago. He throws open the bedroom door and runs down the hallway to a bathroom, bypassing the warm yellow walls that are decorated with picture frames. 

He slams the bathroom door shut and locks it. America carefully walks over to the sink, gasping at the sight that greets him in the mirror. He’s at least three inches shorter, and his face is free of any and all smiles and stress lines. His eyes and hair color are still the same, and as America grins weakly at his reflection, he sighs in relief that his teeth are still Hollywood quality.

“I don’t think I’ve been this in shape since the 50s,” America says in wonder as he pats his stomach and chest. He takes a few moments to flex in the mirror, admiring his toned biceps, abs (an actual six pack! He missed having one of those), and muscular thighs. There are no marks on his skin unlike his normal body, which is littered with battle scars. 

There’s a sudden knock at the door that causes America to jump as he clutches his heart.

“Alfred, honey, breakfast’s ready!” A woman’s voice calls. “Come down before it gets cold.” 

America listens to the retreating footsteps and frowns. Who’s Alfred? Who is this random lady in his weird new house? 

He unlocks the door and slowly opens it, running back to the bedroom. He looks around for his cellphone, but only finds a cracked space gray iPhone 8 laying on the floor. America frowns as he picks it up.

“Changing my master bedroom and bathroom is one thing, but getting rid of my custom iPhone 11 Max Pro with gold plating? That’s cruel Tony,” America says to himself, and presses his thumb to the home button. The phone unlocks, and once again America is confused.

The background is a boy with almost familiar green eyes, shittily dyed green hair that was clearly blond before, and an eyebrow piercing. The boy is giving the camera the middle finger with a haughty smirk, showing off black nail polish. He’s wearing a band tee but America can’t make out which one. 

“He changed my background too? To some random kid? Dude, that’s weird!” America whines. He opens the phone app and scrolls through, mind set on calling Tony and chewing him out. However, as he continues scrolling through random names, he becomes more and more panicked. 

“WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?” America exclaims at the screen filled with perfectly normal names, gripping the phone tightly. Where’s the President? Or Tony? Or even England?

“Alfred! Quit messing around up there and come down for your waffles!” the woman yells up at him, and America flinches.

He takes a deep breath and exits his room once, heading for the staircase. It’s eerily similar to his own, but photos are hung up above the bannister on the walls. 

The first one looks just like him as a baby, except he’s not in a poofy dress in a garden. He’s in a little league baseball outfit, with an oversized helmet and he’s grinning at the camera, showing off missing teeth. 

The next photo is him a few years older, standing at the back of a class photo. He’s beaming at the camera, looking like the only kid happy to be in school.

The final photo at the bottom of the staircase is America looking just as he does now. He’s in a football uniform, with only his helmet missing. His hair is sweaty and he’s only half facing the camera, as he’s pressing a kiss to an older woman’s cheek. The woman looks to be in her late thirties, with dark hair and light eyes. She’s smiling so widely, America feels a smile of his own start to grow on his lips. 

“That’s my favorite picture of us,” says someone next to him, and America screams. The woman from the photo throws her head back as she laughs. “My poor Alfred, eighteen years old and still screams like he’s five,” she teases as she pinches his cheek.

“Uh,” America says, then coughs and forces a laugh. “Yup. That’s me alright. Definitely me.” _Eighteen?_ His ID always labeled him as nineteen. _Is this an elaborate prank?_

She looks at him weirdly, then snorts. “Come on, silly. I cooked you eggs, bacon, and waffles. Don’t ever say your mom never does anything nice for you!”

“M-Mom?” America asks, completely in shock. 

“Yeah?” She turns, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I… was just wondering what the occasion was for the big breakfast,” America lies.

“I knew you hit your head too hard during practice yesterday,” she mumbles to herself. “Sweetie, do you really not know what day it is? I’ll call out of work and take you to the doc–”

“No!” America says quickly. He laughs a little too loud and walks into the kitchen, and takes his seat. Sniffing, his mouth practically waters at the smell of the delicious food on the plate in front of him. “I’m just teasing you, mom. I totally know what today is.”

He has no freaking clue what day it is. But, America is never one to turn down a good homemade breakfast. Unless it’s a British nation who cooked it, of course.

The woman sighs in relief, and walks to the fridge to open it. She grabs orange juice and pours him a glass, smiling. “I hope you don’t mind me driving you. I know you get embarrassed–”

America shakes his head and begins scarfing down the food, nearly moaning in appreciation. He’s still not sure if Tony’s pranking him, but damn this is a good breakfast.

At his silence, she continues, “–but I just can’t help myself. I have to be there for my baby’s first day of senior year!”

America begins choking on his food, and the woman quickly jumps into action and starts slapping his back. 

_Senior year? Mom? Eighteen? Old photos, new phone, new house..._

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks, and he coughs up the crispy bacon stuck in his throat.

He’s a human. _Holy shit._


	2. American vs The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred Jones doesn't know what's weirder. Waking up in someone else's body, having the President's personal cellphone number, or the fact that countries exist as real people.
> 
> He just wants to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very quick update! I have to thank you all for this, because I was so motivated by your reviews and the overwhelming support this fic has gotten in just one day. Thank you guys so much, it means a lot to me.

Alfred groans as he wakes up, wincing. His back and forehead are killing him for some reason. He lifts his head from the keyboard and stares at the dim computer screen. It’s filled with pages of random keys, caused by his face while he slept. 

“Mom, I think I sleepwalked into your office again,” Alfred calls out, but gets no response. He looks around the room, then rubs his eyes and squints. He gasps at the blurriness that fills his vision. “I’m going blind! MOM!”

Once again, he gets no answer. Alfred quickly stands up, surveying the room with squinted eyes. He spots a pair of glasses on the wooden floor, and picks them up. He slowly puts them on, and sighs in relief as the room and his surroundings become crystal clear.

“Man, I must be dreaming,” Alfred muses as he glances around the room. His eyes light up at the gym equipment, and then he pinches himself. “Ow. Okay. So not a dream.”

If he pinches himself again just to make sure, at least no one’s around to see it. His stomach rumbles, and Alfred places a hand on his abdomen, surprised at how soft it feels.

“What the–?” Alfred lifts his shirt and peeks down. His stomach is definitely lacking the abs he worked hard for, and Alfred frowns. He touches his chest, and sighs momentarily in relief at the muscle he feels. Did he lose his abs overnight because he binged at McDonalds? It’s not his fault the food is delicious. “I need to find a mirror.”

Alfred looks around for his phone, but finds a very expensive golden one in its place. He picks it up, surprised at the weight. The lock screen is a picture of the statue of liberty, which weirds him out. He definitely remembers setting it to his jersey number. Alfred shrugs and pockets the phone, then jogs up the stairs.

He turns his head side to side, and whistles lowly in appreciation at the sight which greets him. It’s clear wherever he is, the guy who owns this place has money. A gold brand new phone, a 110 inch flatscreen television, every video game console that’s ever been released, a _real_ leather couch, and what looks to be a modernized kitchen with sparkling clean appliances.

“Maybe I got kidnapped by aliens,” Alfred jokes to himself. He laughs at the absurdity of the idea, and heads up the next flight of stairs.

At the sight of the master bedroom, Alfred nearly trips as he rushes into the open door. The room is plain, with clothes scattered everywhere on the floor. Alfred’s careful to step around them and is suddenly in front of a full body mirror. His jaw drops.

He’s much taller, three or four inches if he has to guess. His shoulders are broader, and he begrudgingly admits that his biceps look bigger. He lifts his shirt again, and frowns at the white, faded scars that litter his entire body. There’s a particularly bad one right on his heart.

“Am I in an alternate universe?” he whispers, touching his body. It’s plausible, Alfred reasons. Anomalies exist, maybe he fell in one while he slept? “Oh! I can call my mom or Arthur!” If they answer as different people, he’ll know he’s in another world! He grins and takes out the phone, which automatically unlocks with facial recognition. As he opens the phone app, he freezes on the keypad.

“Shit, I don’t remember any of their numbers.” Alfred curses. The phone starts vibrating in his hand as the national anthem plays at full volume. He grimaces at the loud noise and looks at the caller ID, raising an eyebrow. “The President?” he asks. Weird nickname for a friend, but people have called him wonderboy sometimes, so he gets it.

He swipes to accept the call. “Um, hello,” he answers timidly.

“AMERICA! You didn’t answer any of the emails I sent you yesterday!” a voice, which he’s only ever heard on CNN, berates him. Alfred stares wide eyed at the phone, not believing his own ears.

“Holy shit, you’re actually the President,” Alfred breathes out. 

There’s a pause. “America, are you feeling okay?” 

“Oh my God I’m talking to the President,” Alfred says hysterically, bursting into a manic giggle. “I guess I’m not in an alternate universe if you’re still here, huh?”

“America, seriously, you’re freaking me out. Do I need to call England?” the President asks him, concern evident in her tone.

“Uh, um,” Alfred says. He doesn’t know what these codenames are about, but does England mean she’s going to call the King or something? Not knowing what to do, he hangs up.

After a moment of silence, he realizes what he’s just done.

“Oh fuck, I just hung up on the President! Is that treason?” Alfred panics, heart racing. He paces back and forth, gripping the phone tightly. It constantly buzzes in his hand, and Alfred is man enough to admit he’s scared to answer it. He’s somehow switched bodies with a guy that not only looks like him, but personally knows the President of the United States. 

On the third buzz, Alfred picks up again. “I’m sorry Mrs. President, please don’t arrest me for hanging up on you! I’m a good kid, I swear!”

“America?” a quiet, definitely not feminine voice asks.

“Uh. Yeah?” Alfred tries to play along.

“Are you okay?” 

Alfred clears his throat. “Yup, yup, totally good. Haha. Whew. Sorry, uh…” he trails off.

There’s a sigh. “It’s Canada.” 

Alfred’s eyes widen, and he laughs nervously. Who are these people and their weird country nicknames? “I definitely knew that. Ha. Sorry, man.”

“It’s okay, I’m used to it.” Alfred hears “Canada” shuffle around on the other line. “Listen, I feel really bad about yesterday. I should’ve stood up for you. I feel like a horrible brother.”

Alfred furrows his brows as he tries to make sense of everything. So, “America” and “Canada” are brothers, and something bad happened to America–him–yesterday. Huh. “Hey dude, it’s okay. It’s not your fault, so don’t beat yourself up about it, alright?”

There’s silence, and Alfred worries he answered wrong. Is that not something this America guy would say?

“Thanks, Am.” He can almost hear the smile in the guy’s voice, which makes Alfred sigh in relief. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. “I’m gonna pick you up for today’s conference, so be ready in ten minutes, okay?”

“What conference?” Alfred asks nervously.

“The world conference that lasts all week. The same one you stormed out of yesterday. America, are you sure you’re okay?” Canada sounds nervous too, and Alfred takes a deep breath. 

He can do this, he can play pretend for a while until he figures out what the fuck is going on. After all, he _was_ the best Troy Bolton in his school’s rendition of High School Musical last year.

“I’m just joking with you bro!” Alfred forces a laugh. “Of course I know the conference.”

“Okay, good.” Canada chuckles.

“Just a question for you, Canada.” 

“What’s up?”

Alfred looks at the dirty dress clothes on the floor, then laughs nervously. “Is there a dress code for this meeting?”

* * *

The car ride to the world conference is genuinely one of the most awkward experiences Alfred’s ever had. The Canada guy looks strikingly similar to Alfred himself, so he guesses him and America must be identical twins. Alfred had stared in shock when the Canadian, who looked no older than himself, rolled up in a black SUV. 

Canada had made a move to hug him but Alfred awkwardly stuck out his hand for a shake, which left them both confused, one more embarrassed than the other.

That probably set the tone for the drive.

Every time Alfred tries to speak and says the man’s name, Canada looks shocked for some reason. Which, in turn, makes Alfred stop speaking out of fear he’s saying something wrong. Wash, rinse, repeat.

When Canada finally parks and leads him into the building, Alfred nervously fixes his collar. He feels like he’s dressed up for junior prom all over again.

His mom would take a million pictures if she were here right now. 

With that thought, Alfred frowns as he looks at the floor. _Mom._ He misses her. He should try looking through a phonebook. Oh! Or maybe he can show up at her job. _Shit, what’s the address again?_

Alfred wordlessly follows Canada into a room, then blinks at all the people in it. He suddenly feels every eye on him, and most aren’t kind.

“Uh. Why is everyone staring at me?” Alfred whispers to Canada.

“Because you’re _you_ , America.” Canada smiles at him, and Alfred smiles weakly in return. 

“Ha. Right.” Alfred swallows and tugs at his collar again. “Can I sit by you, please?”

“Am, we have assigned seats.” Canada looks at him with a frown, and points down the long table. “Yours is over there. United States.”

“Oh, yeah, duh.” Alfred keeps his gaze to the floor as he walks towards his assigned seat. This feels strangely similar to freshmen year of high school, when he didn’t know anyone and the teacher would pick out their seats for them. With this sense of familiarity, Alfred feels more at ease.

He bumps into someone, and lifts his gaze. “I’m sorry–”

Alfred stares at the shorter man in front of him, who is glaring up at him with those beautiful emerald green eyes. 

“Watch where you’re going, oaf.” The eyes, the voice, it has to be–

“Arthur?” Alfred asks quietly, looking the man up and down. His hair isn’t dyed, his eyebrows are larger and they’re missing the signature piercing, and he looks way more formal. But maybe, hopefully, he isn’t alone in this body swap. 

“What are you talking about?” Arthur’s lookalike asks, crossing his arms. “Did you hit your head on your way in or something?”

Alfred lets out a defeated sigh and shakes his head. “I thought you were… Never mind.” Ignoring the confused stare from the Englishman he takes his seat. Which is unfortunately next to the guy who he just embarrassed himself in front of. _Great._

Alfred takes out a notebook along with a pen. He scrolls through the past pages and notices a lack of actual notes, just a bunch of drawings along with tally marks of how many times France and England fought, Greece slept, Romano cursed, and the list goes on.

Alfred takes a look around the table, noticing every name tag is just a country. Do these representatives not use actual names?

As he studies every nation representative (or are they actual personifications of countries? The President _did_ call him America… He’ll ask Canada on the ride home) he finds his eyes on Arthur’s lookalike–England–once more.

“Is there something on my face?” England asks. Alfred blinks, then smiles shyly.

“You just look like someone I know.” 

“Given the fact that we’ve known each other for nearly four centuries now, I’d sure hope I look like someone you know,” England replies dryly. 

“No, no!” _Four centuries?_ Alfred has a feeling he’d faint given any other circumstance where he finds out countries are real people, but given the fact that he is currently _in another man’s body_ , he accepts it quite quickly. “His name’s Arthur.”

“And just how do you know this Arthur?” England practically growls out, causing Alfred to lose his smile pretty fast. God, these nations are quick to anger. 

“He’s my…” Alfred trails off. His heart starts racing, and he internally curses himself for being such a coward. Even in a room of people he doesn’t know, and he can’t go through with admitting out loud that he and Arthur–

“If you two are done gossiping,” Germany cuts in, saving Alfred from the embarrassing conversation he’s currently in. “It’s time to start since everyone’s here.”

Alfred lets out a sigh, and England gives him an odd look.

Germany throws the pair one last glare, before he loads up his presentation and begins speaking. Well, it’s more like a rant, which makes Alfred’s note taking even harder because the nation talks extremely fast.

America’s phone buzzes in Alfred’s pocket, and Alfred pulls it out discreetly to read the text. He’s hoping it’s the President, because he is truly sorry for hanging up on her. 

**Tony:** _Hello. U r stuck in America’s body until he says he wants 2 leave urs. Sorry_

Alfred reads the message over and over, feeling fear and anger bubble inside him. Like any teenage boy who can’t properly express emotions, Alfred sends the phone flying across the room and nearly hits the lean Chinese man in the process. It hits the wall with a crack, and almost every country winces in sympathy.

“I knew he was still mad about yesterday!” an Albino says with a cackle. “Yes! This fight is gonna be awesome!”

“FUCK!” Alfred screams, slamming his fist on the table. Of course, Alfred doesn’t know the strength he possesses in this body, so the table snaps in half and caves in on itself, causing everyone’s notebooks and cellphones to slide towards the middle and fall in between the crack.

“What has gotten into you?” Switzerland exclaims, pulling out his gun and aiming it threateningly.

“YES! Break the projector next, bro!” Denmark cheers, earning a dirty look from Norway.

Alfred stands up, gripping his face as he grits his teeth. Tears well up in his eyes as he takes heaving breaths. “I just wanna fucking go home! I never asked for this!” 

“America, we’ll apologize for yesterday. Please calm down!” Spain tries, but Alfred just chokes back a sob and turns away, facing the wall. He hiccups as he hastily wipes the tears. 

“Dammit,” he whispers with a sniffle. “I–I’m sorry, I just…”

“Hey,” Canada says quietly, practically appearing out of thin air next to the American. “Want me to take you home, Am?”

Alfred, not trusting his voice, nods quickly. Canada grabs his arm and drags him out of the room, leaving behind the phone. 

The walk to the car is in silence, and Alfred stares at the ground in shame. He’s eighteen years old, he shouldn’t be crying like a baby because he misses his mom and his ~~boyfriend~~. 

Once in the car, Canada makes no move to start the ignition. He turns towards the passenger seat, facing Alfred head on.

“You’re not my brother, are you,” he says rather than asks. Alfred gulps.

“What’re you talking about, Canada? Of course I’m your brother!” Alfred lies, and knows he must look ridiculous with his puffy eyes and obvious lip quiver. Canada gives him a look, and Alfred sighs. “Fine. I’m not. How’d you know?”

“Twin intuition,” Canada says, and Alfred gasps.

“Dude, that’s a real thing? Awesome! Can you track down where he is? Or feel his emotions? Or–”

“I’m kidding,” Canada cuts in with a chuckle and Alfred pouts. “You didn’t mess up my name once today. No matter how much I love America, I don’t think he’s ever gone an hour without calling me Canadia. Also, you took notes during Germany’s presentation.”

“Oh. Man, I didn’t know he was a slacker with short term memory. I would’ve tried way less,” Alfred complains. Canada abruptly laughs, and Alfred feels himself grin.

“Am isn’t a slacker, and he doesn’t have short term memory loss. I’ll tell you more when we get to his house, so maybe tomorrow you won’t make everyone question if he’s having a mental breakdown.” Canada finally starts the car. 

Alfred smiles at him. “Hey… Thank you, Canada.” 

Canada smiles brightly in return, and begins driving towards America’s house.

•••

“Damn, is he on his period?” Prussia asks with a laugh, only to be smacked across the back of his head by Hungary. “Jeez, take a chill pill. I’m joking!”

“It could be that America is using drugs,” Japan says. “I believe the use of steroids causes irrational anger and waves of emotion, like the behavior he displayed.”

“Shit. Are we gonna have to have an intervention for that bastard?” Romano heaves a sigh. “Why can’t he just get addicted to nicotine like the rest of us?”

“The more logical question is whether his country is having another civil war. Hopefully this one ruins him so I can pick up the broken pieces,” Russia comments happily. As everyone stares at him, he lets out a cheerful laugh. “Kidding! You’re all so on edge.”

England walks over to the fallen iPhone and picks it up. He reads the last message with a thoughtful frown on his face. “Hm.”

Something fishy is going on here, and he _will_ get to the bottom of it. First things first, he must ambush America. Or the stupid alien.

England pockets the phone and walks out of the conference room, and no one notices him leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, America in high school. Will he have the same troubles Alfred is having, or will he enjoy life more?


	3. America vs Highschool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is surprisingly good at high school subjects. He's not so good at high school relationships, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! :D This took a while, and I'm sorry. With America, there's a lot more OCs I have to add as background characters (mom, teachers, students, etc.) Meanwhile with Alfred, it's just like an AU America and countries, so it comes easier. I'm feeling kinda meh about this chapter, so I'm sorry in advance if it's terrible.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

America drums his fingers against his leg as Alfred’s mother messes with the radio, changing the station every few seconds. She notices his hands, and she places one of hers on top of his own.

“Nervous?” she guesses, and America gives a slight nod in response. She squeezes his hand comfortingly. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You’re gonna do great. You told me how you and Arthur are sharing a lot of classes this year! And not to mention the rest of your friends.”

“Who’s Arthur?” America asks. At the woman’s gasp, he bursts out in laughter. “Kidding, kidding! Of course I know Artie.”

“Alfred Jones!” She playfully smacks his arm. “Your jokes are going to give me a heart attack one of these days. You know I get worried about you playing football and the trauma to your brain from all the tackles! Don’t mess around with playfully forgetting your best friend.”

 _Thank god_ , she fell for his trick and said those magic words. Now America knows when he meets up with this Arthur guy to act buddy-buddy. Taking over someone else’s life is hard work, he wishes Tony left a biography of this guy for him to study, like a list of interests and friendships or something like that.

Pshhh, who’s he kidding. He wouldn’t have read them anyways.

Finally, Alfred’s mom stops on the 80’s station. She smiles as she turns up the volume and starts the car. 

At the sound of the song, America immediately perks up.

“You gonna sing, Al?” she teases as she starts driving, glancing in her rearview mirror at the end of the street before turning.

“Oh, I don’t know,” America says bashfully. 

The guys usually make fun of him for this sort of thing, except England. Iggy would actually join in a lot of times, or they’d go out to karaoke. Speaking of the older nation, it makes America feel a little sad. He kinda misses him.

 _The feeling is definitely not mutual,_ America feels his mood begin to dampen.

“Some will win, some will lose,” Alfred’s mom starts with a grin. “Some were born to sing the blues. Oh the movie never ends…” she trails off.

“It goes on, and on, and on, and on!” America joins in, bad mood and thoughts of England completely gone from his mind.

“Strangers, waiting! Up and down the boulevard!” They both sing poorly off key, but neither care. The car ride to the high school continues with a good energy between the two, and America laughs loudly and carefree.

•••

Alfred’s mom pulls over and puts her hazards on, then reaches out and cups America’s cheeks, squishing them. “I’m working late today so I won’t be able to pick you up. Are you going over Arthur’s house?”

“Yeah, probably,” America says, slightly muffled with his cheeks being squished. 

She smiles and pinches his cheeks, causing him to whine. She laughs. “Have a good day, Alfie. I love you!”

America opens the door handle and grabs his backpack from the backseat. He thinks back to the picture by the stairs, and leans forward to kiss her cheek. “I love you too, mom.”

America quickly opens the door and hops out of the car before he can see her reaction, slamming it shut as he makes his way towards the school building. 

His face is flushed with embarrassment, but there’s a slight smile he can’t seem to get rid of. _So this is what it feels like to have a mother’s love, huh?_

America never had a parental figure when growing up. Since he was part of the new world discovery, the other nations cared more about the lush resources his land had to offer rather than just him. _Another difference between humans and nations,_ he thinks bitterly.

Of course, England did try. He gave him that toy soldier after all. Come to think of it, America still has it. England–

 _Why is he on my mind so much lately?_ America shakes his head with a grunt, and slings his backpack over one shoulder. He opens the door to the school, and surveys the sight.

The hallways are filled with students just lounging around. Some are dressed almost exactly like him: with lettermen jackets that each represent a different number on the back, jeans, and sneakers. Others are just wearing plain clothes with their own personal flare to the outfits.

America reaches into his pocket and takes out a small neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolds and opens it fully, lips pressed together in concentration as he studies it.

The paper is a printed out schedule he found in Alfred’s room after showering and getting dressed. The schedule’s pretty simple, which means the teenager must be a good student to get such a lax workload. His first class is government and economics, followed by English, then college math, physics, lunch, gym, and finally study hall. 

“Yo, Al!” One of the other students wearing a letterman walks up to him and holds up his fist. America bumps the guy’s fist with his own, and keeps walking towards his first classroom.

“Hey, Alfie!” America turns his head and notices a group of girls crowding a locker. One of them waves at him with a shy smile. America waves back, and they start giggling and whispering amongst each other.

As America continues towards his destination, the acknowledgements do as well. Similar to world meetings, all eyes are on him. Unlike the nations, however, the gazes from the students feel warm and adoring. It seems like every kid in this school wants to say hi to him, ask for a high five or fist bump, talk about upcoming practice, the list goes on and on.

With his signature grin back in full force, America slows his pace to talk to more people he passes.

_I could get used to this._

•••

America walks into his first classroom just as the bell rings, panting slightly. He’s not even late because of the people he had stopped to talk to, it’s because he got lost down the wrong wing of the school. However, instead of delivering an angry rant in German, the teacher only raises her eyebrows at him and gestures to the last empty seat.

Which just so happens to be right next to a kid who looks like he’s the lead singer of an underground punk band. 

America recognizes him as the guy who’s on Alfred’s home screen. _This must be Arthur._ His cheek is in his palm, and he looks incredibly bored. His outfit is something America would’ve definitely worn in his grunge era: a leather jacket, an authentic _Def Leppard_ concert t-shirt (America would know, he practically went to all of them), black jeans with a belt, and boots. 

America walks past the row of desks and sets his backpack onto the floor, plopping onto the empty seat.

“Is that from their ‘83 world tour?” America whispers as he points to the shirt. He remembers going with England, and he begrudgingly had to admit to a very smug older nation about how good his bands were. Thankfully, America’s singers nowadays are totally ruling the charts.

“Yeah, how’d you know? Thought you hated this type of music,” Arthur whispers back with a raised eyebrow. America blinks at the British accent, but quickly jumps back into it.

“Well, I started listening because of you, duh,” America says, which isn’t even a lie. This kid’s British, and America listened to British bands because of England. See? Full circle, no lies detected.

Arthur scoffs and looks away, but the British punk smiles despite himself.

“Are we still on for later?” Arthur asks quietly. 

“Later when? Like, after school or?” America questions. At Arthur’s questioning look, America places a hand on the back of his neck. “My mom can’t pick me up, so I was hoping to come over?” He gives his best puppy dog expression. It never fails.

Arthur gives him a look, then smirks. “ _Oh._ Of course you can come over later, love. I meant study hall, though. We planned to go under the bleachers, remember?”

“Right, yeah,” America lies. “Sure, I’ll meet you at our usual spot.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but a different voice cuts him off.

“Jones, Kirkland! I assume you’re talking about the American government, right?” their teacher asks sweetly, her tone practically screaming ‘Ha! Gotcha!’ 

“Of course we were Miss, it’s my favorite pastime after all,” Arthur drawls. America snickers, and Arthur grins at him.

“Then I bet you won’t have an issue answering what the role of the federal reserve is in the United States economy?” she asks smugly.

“It’s the central bank of our country. It was founded in Congress in…” America taps his chin as he thinks. “1913? Yep, I think that year. It provides our nation with a safer, flexible, and stable monetary and financial situation.”

The teacher’s jaw drops.

“Jones, I thought you sucked at history,” Arthur whispers, though he looks impressed. 

“I did some late night studying.” America shrugs nonchalantly. Inwardly, he’s a little excited. He knows the guys must be giving Alfred hell in his body, so the least he can do is get the boy a good grade in a class he’s normally terrible at.

It all cancels out like PEMDAS.

For the rest of class, America is the only one to raise his hand for every question. When the bell rings, Arthur grabs the bottom of his letterman to hold him back as everyone else walks out. 

“You wanna head to the janitors closet?” Arthur asks in a low voice, smirking.

“But we have…” America pulls out his schedule and looks at it. “English. Why would we go to the janitor’s closet? Do you need like, paper towels?” He looks around for a spill, and Arthur barks out a laugh.

“God Alfred, you’re so fucking stupid,” Arthur says with a grin. “You're lucky I like that in a guy.”

America grins back and grabs his schoolbag, looking at Arthur. “I get that a lot.” From another British dude, no surprise there. Arthur isn’t angry at America’s “stupidity” (he still doesn’t know how he’s being dumb in this instance) like England usually is.

 _Stop thinking about England so much, dude,_ he tells himself.

“I’ll just wait ‘till study hall,” Arthur purrs, and trails his fingers along America’s exposed waistband as he strolls out of the classroom, confidence practically oozing out of him.

America tilts his head as he watches the other boy leave, feeling confused and flustered. Must be the weird teenage hormones that come with this body or something. He quickly shakes his head and hurries out of the classroom and turns left towards his next class.

•••

The rest of his classes are almost exactly like the first one, except Arthur’s mood worsens as the day goes on. America notices how after government and economics, more of the “popular” crowd are in his classes. When he goes to sit by Arthur in English, a girl (America learns her name is Bryanna, the head cheerleader) grabs his hand and pulls him to sit in the back with another jock named Jeremy, who gives him a light punch on the shoulder as he takes his seat.

America looks over at Arthur with a small frown, and the British punk just shakes his head with a slight smile that doesn't reach his eyes and shrugs. As this same instance happens in the next class, and the next, and even during lunch, Arthur completely loses his playful personality that he was brimming with in the morning, and refuses to even meet America’s eyes from across the cafeteria. 

After gym class, America takes his time in the locker room. The other boys are joking around with one another, shoving each other against the lockers and having dick measuring contests. America's decided that this might be the one part of being human he's glad nations don't do. ~~He'd win anyways, if they did.~~

“Yo, Al,” Jeremy calls out to him, and America lifts his head up from the water fountain.

“Sup, dude?” He leans back down as he pushes on the button, and drinks water.

“Bryanna totally wants you, my guy. I heard from Kaitlyn, who heard from Chad, who heard from Daniel, who heard from his girlfriend who’s Bryanna’s bestie, that she thinks you’re the hottest guy in the school. You piping or what?” Jeremy wiggles his eyebrows and the rest of the boys laugh. 

America chokes on his water and quickly swallows, wincing at the pain.

“Uh, haha, I dunno dudes,” America says while coughing. He punches his chest lightly and looks away. “I kinda have my eyes on someone else.”

If a certain someone who’s obsessed with tea and has large eyebrows pops into mind, America says nothing.

“Oooooooh!” All the boys say at once, crowding around him.

“Damn, who’s the lucky lady? Bry is gonna be sooo pissed,” Jeremy says, though his eyes light up at the prospect of a future catfight. 

“Yeah Al, you gotta tell us. We won’t say,” another guy pipes up. 

“Tell us, tell us!” they chant, and America backs himself up against a wall as they form a circle around him.

“I–” America thanks the heavens that he is cut off by a loud knock on the locker room door. 

“Boys, start heading to your last class. The bell’s gonna ring!” the Coach says, and America sighs in relief as the other kids groan and grab their stuff. 

“This ain’t over, Al,” Jeremy threatens teasingly, giving the sunny blond a noogie with a grin. America shoves him off with a pout and Jeremy laughs, leading the rest of the guys out of the room.

“I hate that he’s taller,” America grumbles as he fixes his hair. He grabs his bag and jogs towards the exit. The security guard at the front desk gives him an approving nod, and America smiles at him as he goes outside towards the bleachers. 

America wipes sweat off his forehead as he ducks his head underneath the metal stairs, and lets out a sigh as he’s finally encased in a nice shade that the bleachers offer. He looks around, but there’s no sight of Arthur. 

_He’s probably on his way_ , America shrugs. He sits down and settles into the grass beneath him, taking off his letterman and fanning himself with one hand. He leans against one of the thick beams supporting the bleachers and takes out Alfred’s phone, as well as his headphones. He unlocks the phone and hits shuffle on Spotify, then goes into the messaging app. There’s a text from a familiar number.

 **866-925-4360  
** _Havin fun?_ 👽 

America grins as he types out his response.

_Tony!! :DDD Ty for this I love u man <3 _

_**866-925-4360**  
:) Take ur time Meri, no rush ok? _

_I will ;) ppl actually like me here lol_

“Should I be worried about another bloke replacing me?” Arthur says, suddenly behind him. He’s holding a cigarette between his fingers, and quirks his studded eyebrow at America as he takes a drag. America quickly removes the headphones and locks Alfred's phone, grinning sheepishly up at Arthur.

“Hey, you snuck up on me!” America pats the spot next to him, but lets out a surprised “oof!” as Arthur sits down in his lap. Arthur grins at him and takes one final puff of the cigarette before flicking it away.

“Sorry, love. Got caught up with my maths teacher,” Arthur explains, casually looking at his chipped nail polish on one hand as he loops his other arm around America’s neck. 

_Is this what high school friends do?_ America panics. Not wanting to look weird, America wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist. Clearly this was a smart move, and he congratulates himself as Arthur snuggles closer.

“You didn’t send me a good morning text, you know,” Arthur says quietly. Then coughs, “Not like I was waiting for it. But when your boyfriend sends you one every day for the eleven months you’ve been together, you’d think he wouldn’t break tradition, right?”

 _Boyfriend? Like, a boy who’s a friend? Or the gay way?_ “Uh, I’m sorry Artie. This morning was really crazy.” America laughs to himself. What an understatement.

“Hm. Make it up to me,” Arthur says, and his face is a lot closer than before. At America’s confusion, Arthur rolls his eyes with a small smile. “Dumbass,” he says affectionately, then presses his lips firmly against America’s.

 _Oh. Boyfriend as in the gay way_ , America thinks, before he closes his eyes and his brain short-circuits. America grips Arthur’s hip as he kisses back with fervor, because it’s been a while and Arthur reminds him of someone he’s been in love with for decades.

Arthur makes a small, approving noise in the back of his throat and tilts his head, biting down on America’s lower lip and tugging playfully. 

As the pain registers in his brain, America snaps his eyes open. This isn’t America and England, this is America in a teenager’s body kissing said teenager’s boyfriend. He quickly pulls away, and Arthur frowns.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, noticing America’s shifty, guilty gaze. His face hardens. “Oh, you’re afraid one of your popular friends is going to stumble upon us, aren’t you?”

“What? No!” America protests, but Arthur hmmphs. 

“I’m tired of hiding in the closet with you. Do you know how it makes me feel when the local gossip is about which girl Alfred Jones is going to hookup with next? Or when I sit alone in the lunchroom because your stupid “reputation” means you can’t spend any time with me, or else people might “assume things” about us? I’m getting sick of it, Alfred,” Arthur rants and takes his arm off of America's next with a frown.

America winces. He definitely shouldn’t be hearing this right now. He feels like an intruder, for the first time during this whole body swap experience. “Arthur, listen. I’m not who you think I am.”

Arthur eyes him weirdly, eyebrows furrowed. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not the guy you’ve been dating for months, alright? I’m–” 

“Oh my god. They’re true, aren’t they? You’re cheating on me?” Arthur moves off of America’s lap quickly, and the latter’s eyes widen.

“No, no! Just please listen,” America tries. Arthur shakes his head and begins walking away. America catches up to him and grabs his jacket, the same way Arthur did to him this morning. “Artie, please–”

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur says quietly, and America winces at his cold tone. “We’re done, Jones.” With that, the British boy shakes off America’s grip and briskly walks away from the field. 

America bites his lip, cursing himself. Even though he feels awful for ruining Alfred and Arthur’s relationship, he’s learned a lot in that impromptu breakup. Firstly, Alfred is gay–another thing they have in common. Secondly, Alfred is hiding this fact from everyone, even his own mother. Thirdly, him and Arthur clearly have a serious relationship if Arthur’s been willing to put up with this for eleven months, and even more if America didn't open his big mouth.

With a newfound determination, America grabs his jacket and backpack and starts walking. He’s going to help Alfred out, he’s decided. Obviously he won’t publicly come out to anyone because it's not his place or his story to tell, but he can fix the relationship he ruined by accident. He can also give Alfred the confidence to be himself. 

He takes out Alfred's phone and sends a quick text to Tony.

_I wanna meet wt this Alfred kid. See u this weekend?_

**866-925-4360  
** _In ur body, or his?_

_I’ll come in his, leave in mine_

America pockets the phone and exits the school grounds, then spends two hours walking around the neighborhood trying to find his house. In the end, Alfred’s mother picks him up on the side of the road after he calls her in hysterics. 

He should’ve just asked Tony for the address, looking back on it. At least he knows for next time.


	4. Highschool Matchmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred becomes a love guru after almost being stabbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come get your USUK juice!!!

England shifts on the uncomfortable branch, pulling his face away from the binoculars to give France a dirty look. “I can feel you judging me, frog.”

“Angleterre, I worry about you.” France gestures to the tree they’re both perched on, and then to America’s house, full of open windows, which is just a mere few feet away. “This is the lowest you’ve gone to spy on the object of your affections. Just look up his leaked nudes like the rest of us.”

“He is _not_ the object–what? They leaked?” England asks, and France nods. England makes a mental note to do extensive research on this later. “That’s not the point, though. I’m here to spy on his behavior, not his body.”

“Because of his freakout?” France guesses, and England shakes his head.

“No, I’ve seen America act like that after a sports game. This is the reason why!” England takes out America’s iPhone and shows France the screen.

“A broken phone?” France asks.

“You’re a moron.” England glares at him. “I can’t make out what the message says because of the cracks on the screen, but Tony sent him something right before all hell broke loose. And America never gets mad at that stupid alien.”

“Your point being?” France asks.

“Clearly whatever that little grey twat sent him made him spiral out of control. Just look at him!” England exclaims, handing France the binoculars.

“I’m looking,” France says with interest, and England smacks his arm.

“Not like that. Look what he’s doing,” England says.

France leans forward and zooms in on the binoculars. “He’s working on a presentation?”

“Exactly!” England grins, almost maniacally.

“Okay, I think you’ve officially lost your mind,” France says.

“When has America ever planned a presentation ahead of schedule?” England asks, France presses his lips together in thought. After a few moments, England raises his eyebrow smugly. “See? He’s never cared before in the decades we’ve done this, so why now? Oh my days, look, look!”

“What?” France quickly looks through binoculars again, then gasps. “Is he cooking?”

“Not ordering takeout, working for Friday’s presentation, I even saw him grab the yoga mat. This isn’t normal!” England says, and France nods.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right. What should we do?”

•••

“Um, should I invite them in?” Alfred asks, glancing out the window. England and another man with shoulder length blond hair are sitting on the tree branch outside America’s house, as they have been for the past two hours. “I mean, I made enough food for everyone.” 

He’s pretty proud of himself. It’s his grandma’s recipe of homemade cavatelli with broccoli rabe and a buttery garlic sauce, something he used to cook with her every Sunday when she was still alive. 

“I’ll go get them,” Canada says with a sigh. “They’re trustworthy, so you can tell them about who you actually are. And me, finally.” 

“Hey, I would’ve told you about me before we stopped at the store, or started working on my slideshow, or even while cooking. You’re the one who wanted to wait till after dinner, dude,” Alfred says with a grin.

Canada rolls his eyes with a smile, and heads towards the backdoor. 

Alfred, meanwhile, searches through the cabinets as he takes out bowls and silverware. He makes a face at the dust, and puts the bowls in the sink to give them a quick wash. “Why’s everything so unused?” he murmurs. 

After drying the bowls, he sets them out on the table. As he opens a cabinet to find cups, a small notebook falls out. Alfred raises an eyebrow and picks it up, flipping through. His eyes widen at the contents. 

“Recipes,” Alfred reads out loud. Each page of the book has different recipes with varying cultures, and things to make depending on who’s coming over. The book is old, every date from nearly over twenty years ago. There are little comments under certain pages in messy handwriting, which say:

_Romano preferred mussels in a red sauce, Italy liked them in a white sauce._

_Iggy said the “biscuit” (just a hard cookie) made him think of home._

_When I brought pizza into the meeting, no one made fun of me :) Didn’t tell them I made it._

Alfred smiles sadly and shuts the book, leaving it on the counter. He’s going to bring this up with Canada later, because it all makes sense. The dusty plates, the notebook, the emptiness of this house… 

_America is lonely._ And Alfred thinks that’s why he was chosen by fate to switch bodies with him, so he can help the guy out.

“England, please don’t–” Alfred hears Canada say, before two people run into the kitchen. Alfred turns, and brightens his smile at the two countries that were previously perched on the tree.

“Hey guys, you hungry?” he asks as he scoops pasta into the freshly cleaned bowls.

“So. America,” England says, eyeing him suspiciously. “Is there a reason you’re cooking? It’s been years since I’ve seen you in the kitchen. Why not partake in some greasy carbs from, say, McDonalds?”

Alfred looks at him weirdly. “I had that last night. I can’t eat the same stuff back to back. That’s like, sacrilegious.”

“Aha!” England points at him. “The real America would never say no to a McDonalds binge.” 

“Well, actually,” Alfred starts, but is cut off by a French voice. 

“You’re right Angleterre, Amerique doesn’t know the meaning of sacrilegious. But forget that, this food tastes delicious!” France sits at the table and takes another bite of pasta, humming in appreciation.

“Aw thanks, it was my gran–” Alfred freezes as soon as he feels something sharp pressed against his neck. He looks down and England is standing extremely close, holding a knife up to this throat. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my America?” England growls out with a glare, and Alfred gulps. 

“England!” Canada yells. “Get away from him!” 

“He’s not yours anymore mon ami, that’s what 1776 was all about,” France jokes, but everyone ignores him.

“This monster has taken over your brother’s body!” England protests, even as Canada drags the smaller man away. Alfred clutches his throat, still in shock. “He didn’t even try to stop me himself, he doesn’t know he has super strength! Where’s the real America?”

“Oh, so that’s why the table broke today,” Alfred murmurs to himself. That’s so awesome. _Why aren’t these guys hanging out with America? He’s got super powers!_

“Tell us who you are before I make you regret it!” England threatens, now brandishing a wand since Canada seized hold of the knife. Alfred blinks at him, biting his lip to not laugh.

“Okay, okay. Can we eat first? I don’t want the food getting cold.” Alfred places the remaining three bowls in front of the chairs not occupied by France, and takes his own seat.

Alfred waits for Canada and England to sit down before he starts eating, and the latter takes longer out of spite. France and Canada compliment his cooking skills and attempt to make small talk, while England continues glaring at him throughout the entire meal, purposely choosing to not enjoy it. The man’s expression is very unnerving. 

“Talk.” England pushes his half eaten dish forward, setting his fork down. Alfred holds up a finger to signal ‘one second,’ as he swallows. 

“Alright. So, obviously, I’m not America,” Alfred starts. England rolls his eyes, and Alfred ignores him. “My name’s Alfred Jones and before you whip out another knife on me, I didn’t ask to be put in this guy's body, okay?”

“Then how did you get here?” France asks, genuinely curious. He leans forward on his palm, and Alfred sighs.

“I don’t know. Some guy named Tony texted America’s phone telling me how I’m stuck here until America wants to leave mine. So he must be behind it?” Alfred guesses.

“I knew that little cunt was behind this,” England grumbles. He takes out the broken iPhone and Alfred winces. 

“Amerique won’t be happy when he sees the sight of that,” France muses.

“Wait, can we go back to Tony’s text?” Canada asks with a frown. “My brother chose to leave his life to be a human teenager?”

“I was gonna talk to you about that, since you're his brother and all,” Alfred says. “I’ve been finding things and going through his stuff, and I think America’s lonely.”

“Lonely?” England scoffs. “That tosser knows he can just call me–any of us, I mean, and we’ll come over.”

“Does he?” Alfred counters. “You guys were dicks to me today the second I walked into the room, and it doesn’t take a genius to assume that’s how you act all the time with the actual America. It kinda threw me off guard to be met so harshly, especially when everyone likes me where I’m from.”

“Where are you from?” Canada asks. “Maybe we can find America and bring him home.”

“I live in Long Island.” The three countries sigh in relief once Alfred says that, so Alfred guesses that means he’s still in New York’s vicinity at the very least. “Dudes, I don't wanna get off track, but I think I was chosen by fate.”

“Oh brilliant,” England says sarcastically. “We have a Catholic on our hands.”

“Fate, not faith. Also, didn’t England literally participate in the Crusades? Don’t give me shit,” Alfred says. 

England blinks, stunned into silence as France bursts out in laughter. 

“I may suck at history but my boyfriend's British, I have to know some of _your_ history so I can make fun of him,” Alfred says matter-of-factly, then covers his mouth. “I meant friend! Like, boy who's a friend. Just a slip of the tongue, haha. Don't you hate those?”

“So America’s with Alfred's _British_ boyfriend,” France says, ignoring Alfred's mini meltdown as he smirks at England. “What an interesting turn of events that is, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Shut. Your. Bloody. Mouth,” England says, fists clenched.

“Wait, you guys don’t care that I have a boyfriend?” Alfred interrupts. They look at him, confused.

“Why would we?” England shrugs. “It’d be hypocritical if we judged you for being gay.” He frowns when Alfred flinches at the word slightly.

“Love is love, mon ami. And as the country of l’amour, I would never shame one’s sexuality.” France winks, smiling. Alfred presses his lips together, and Canada clears his throat.

“Let’s get back onto topic, please? Why do you think you were chosen by fate, Alfred?” Canada asks, and Alfred smiles in relief, towards the soft spoken nation, who smiles back.

“Oh yeah! Besides the fact that we look like each other, we’re kinda similar. I think he's lonely and I feel lonely too,” Alfred says shyly, playing with his fingers. He looks down, not meeting anyones eyes. “Everyone at school likes me ‘cuz I’m one of the “popular” kids, but I only really have two friends. My mom, and Arthur.”

“Why don’t you think everyone else is your friend?” Canada asks in a gentle tone. 

“The jocks like me because of football. The cheerleaders like me because of football. Everyone else is nice to me because they think they’ll get popular if I'm nice to them. No one really cares about me, you know? Except Arthur and my mom.” Alfred clenches his jaw and squeezes his fingers tightly. “And I’m making Arthur stay in the closet with me ‘cuz I’m scared of what will happen to us at school. I won’t even tell my mom about our relationship, and she’s my rock. How pathetic is that?”

“Alfred,” France starts with a frown, and Alfred shakes his head quickly.

“Enough of my pity party. I think America’s the same way. Sure, maybe he’s not a closeted running back in high school, but he knows what it’s like to think you don’t have anyone else in the world.” Alfred lifts his head up and smiles slightly. “I think we should decorate his house with photographs and memories to make it feel more like a home, and maybe tomorrow in the meeting I’ll try to set up more relations for him.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. I can tell you who America’s closest to,” England offers, and Alfred grins. 

“Great! You come with me, we’re gonna decorate his room!” Alfred grabs England’s hand and pulls him off the chair easily. Ignoring the older nation's protests at being manhandled, Alfred shoots Canada a smile. “You two cool down here?”

“I’m sure we can think of something to do,” France purrs, wiggling his eyebrows at Canada.

“We are not having sex in my brother’s house,” Canada deadpans. France lets out a dramatic sigh.

Alfred laughs and drags England upstairs, pretending not to hear the nation’s curses directed towards him. Alfred closes the door behind the two, and fixes the shorter man with a serious look. “There’s something else I think I can help America with that I didn’t wanna say down there.”

“Oh?” England tries to act disinterested, but Alfred sees through him pretty easily. He bites his lip to not grin at the obviousness.

“He needs to find love,” Alfred says, and England chokes on his own spit, coughing violently. Alfred quickly smacks the sandy blond’s back, and England wheezes. "Dude, are you okay?"

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” England asks in an odd tone.

“Uh, I said he needs to find love–” Alfred is cut off by England standing up straight, glaring at him.

“And just who are you to decide that? You haven’t met him, you don’t know what he needs! You don’t know his relationships with other nations, and for all you know he could be happily married right now. Why should I help–”

“I was gonna suggest _you._ ”

“–you… Me?” England points at himself incredulously, at a loss for words. Alfred nods, smiling. “Why?” 

“It’s obvious you care about him,” Alfred says. England opens his mouth to protest, and Alfred quickly holds up his hand to counter. “You got mad at me today when I brought up Arthur, because you thought America was with some other guy. You spent two hours in a tree spying on me because you didn’t think I was the real America. And, the final nail in the coffin, you called him “my America.” I’m not stupid.” Alfred smirks. _Thank you debate team._

“Yes, well, _he_ is. I can’t even count how many hints I’ve dropped over the decades,” England says miserably, not even bothering to keep up the façade and argue with Alfred. “It doesn’t matter that I love him. He doesn’t love me and I’ve come to accept that.”

Alfred looks at him silently, and England shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. _He's lying, good._ Alfred gets on his knees and crawls under the bed. England watches him, confused and curious.

Finally, Alfred crawls out, holding a box filled with envelopes and photographs. " **Keep"** is written on the side of the box in sharpie, faded to a point where it's barely legible.

“What is that?” England asks.

“I found it this morning when I was going through the clothes on the floor for in search for a decent outfit. I went through a few of the pics, but it felt super invasive.” Alfred places the box in front of England’s feet, and smiles up at him. “They’re all about you.”

England blinks, then drops to the ground and immediately rummages through the box’s contents. Alfred lets out a small laugh. “I’ll go through the closet. I saw some cute photos and I think I’m gonna hang them up to give his hallway some life.” England doesn’t answer, too engrossed in reading one of the letters.

•••

~~_Yo Eng,_ ~~

~~_Iggy,_ ~~

_Dear England,_

_I don’t know why I wasted so much time thinking of an opening. You’re not gonna read this anyways. I’m really happy you spent the week with me, dude. There’s no one else ~~on this planet~~ I’d rather watch the moon landing with. You know, I told myself I was gonna kiss you right after it happened and if you shoved me away, I’d just blame it on the heat of the moment and being excited. But, just like V-Day, I got scared and chickened out last second. Weird, right? I talk a big game, but I can’t even be my own hero. I’m glad I didn’t kiss you though. I got to see your beautiful smile, your **real** smile, for longer than a second. I got to be the center of your world for a moment, and that’s all I can really ask for. Maybe next time, right? _

_This is way too cheesy. I don’t think I’m gonna keep this one, I’ll probably burn it. I just had to write down my feelings, because I had a really groovy time. I haven’t stopped smiling since you went home, my boss even asked if I was high. That’s just what ~love~ does to someone, huh?_

_Yep. This one’s definitely getting burned._

~~_I love_ ~~

~~_Miss you,_ ~~

_\- America_

England carefully touches the burned edges of the paper as he finishes reading, folding it neatly and putting it back in the yellowing envelope. Thank the heavens America changed his mind and pulled the letter out of the flames.

He grabs a polaroid that’s sticking out of the box, wedged between a few more letters. It’s of the two of them, England on top of America in an uncomfortable position and America laying on smooth cement. England is looking at the camera with a scowl and America is looking at England, smile wide and eyes full of adoration. 

England remembers this day actually, Prussia wanted to learn how to rollerblade so America offered to teach him, and asked England to tag along for fun. Prussia had taken this picture moments after England fell on top of America, because prior to the fall, the Englishman had bragged how he didn’t need lessons. 

He flips the polaroid around and is surprised to find writing.

_1986_

_Begged Prussia for this pic. Iggy looks so adorable. He said I owe him something, but I don't care. This is a keeper for sure. _

England feels his face heat up as bites his lip, grinning. “Idiot,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?” Alfred pops his head into the room, nails in his mouth and hammer in his hand. “Did you need something, man?”

England feels his heart skip a beat at the sight of America, but then he remembers and everything comes crashing down _._ He can't jump into the man's arms and kiss the life out of him because it’s not America, it’s that ridiculously perceptive high schooler. _Damn it all._

“No, you must've misheard.” England clears his throat. 

Alfred looks over his face, then grins. “I’m guessing the letters proved me right, huh?” At England’s eye roll, the boy has the nerve to laugh.

“Be quiet. We still have to decorate the house, so let's get to it. Lord knows how France loves a makeover," England grumbles as he stands up. His bones crack, and he cringes. Thankfully, Alfred keeps his mouth shut of any old age comments. He's still a little ticked off about the Crusades one from dinner.

“Yeah, yeah. And you still gotta tell me who America likes so I can get him some friend dates!” Alfred takes the nails out of his mouth and starts hammering on the wall. England scrunches his nose in distaste at the loud noise.

“The list is short and sweet, don’t fret.” England dusts himself off. He keeps the box out, because he’s definitely returning to it later.

“But, I am a high school student,” Alfred starts once he’s finished beating America’s nice clean wall to death.

“And?” England asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Which means I live off of gossip! C’mon, you gotta tell me what those letters said. Please, please, please!” Alfred begs, and England rolls his eyes with a snort.

“And why should I? That’s an invasion of privacy, you said so yourself lad.” 

“I got thrown into a body of a personified country against my will and now I have to do a presentation of the rising obesity rates in front of other personified countries in two days, email the freaking President about international relations, set up you and America, and get him some friends so he never does this bullshit again,” Alfred says, nearly out of breath from the longwinded sentence. “I deserve some gossip.” 

England winces in sympathy.

“You know what? Fair point. Your life _is_ quite awful at the moment.”


	5. America and Humanism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America learns the epic highs and lows of high school football. Oh, he also steals a car and cuts class with his not-boyfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello 👋 This was probably the hardest chapter to write, except for the second half. Apologies if it's poor. :(

America, despite being a bit of an airhead, isn’t a complete idiot. He knows Arthur’s been deliberately going out of his way to avoid him, even going as far as to skip their morning government class together and sit as far away as possible from him in the others.

It makes America’s job even harder, because it’s already Thursday afternoon, and he promised Tony that he’d be ready to go by Friday. As much as he loves Alfred's moms cooking and being the center of attention in high school, he really doesn’t like doing homework, or waking up early every single day.

Jeremy tackles him just as he’s about to make a touchdown, forcing America out of his thoughts as he’s dog piled. 

He also really doesn’t fucking like being without his strength. This human pain registry is  _ not  _ it.

America lets out a groan, rolling onto his side as the rest of the guys take their sweet time getting off of him. The Coach blows the whistle, and Jeremy stays behind as the other teenagers make their way over toward the middle aged man.

Jeremy holds out his hand to America, who’s still lying pathetically on the grass.

“You know, we would go a little easier on you if you’d tell us who you like,” Jeremy sing-songs, grinning at America’s face, which is contorted with pain.

“Dude, screw you,” America says with a whimper, and Jeremy laughs. America reluctantly takes the taller boy’s hand and allows Jeremy to pull him up. He’s slightly miffed at just how easily Jeremy’s able to do so.  _ This Alfred kid needs to weight train more. _

“Suit yourself!” Jeremy slaps his back, smirking at America’s wince.

“Jones! Five laps around the field if you’re gonna give me that pathetic excuse of a run! Do you want us to lose every game this year?” Coach yells at him, and America internally screams. Outwardly, he forces a smile. 

“No sir,” America answers as he starts to jog. With a whistle right in his ear once he runs by the older man, he picks up his pace to a sprint, fake smile dropping and replaced with a scowl.

He flips off Jeremy and the other football players as he passes them and rolls his eyes at their laughs and jeers.

•••

Hours later, America drags himself through the door and into Alfred's house, panting. He’s never felt this weak in his entire life, even when he went to war against himself. Which sucks by the way, don’t do that. Just go to therapy or something.

His entire body aches with every breath he takes, and he can practically feel the bruises forming on almost every inch of his skin.

“Hey sweetie! How was practice?” Alfred’s mom calls from the kitchen. America gives a tired groan in response, and she laughs. “That good, huh? I’m making grilled chicken and veggies.”

“No pasta or potatoes on the side?” America asks.

“It’s sports season! You need to keep up your figure. Since I’m off tomorrow, I think we should do yoga before breakfast, then I’ll take you to school again. How’s that sound Alfie?” she asks sweetly, and America’s eyes widen.

No cheat foods?  _ Yoga? _

“Sounds great mom!” he lies as he kicks off his shoes and heads towards the dining table, faking a bright smile as she kisses his cheek.

_ I need to talk Arthur and get the fuck out of this body, immediately. _

* * *

Dinner is a quiet affair. America’s appetite in this body isn’t as large as it is in his own, so even though he consciously craves a McDouble, he’s surprisingly fine with the meal. Plus, the chicken is actually juicy and the vegetables are seasoned nicely, so he can’t really complain. Not that he ever would, Alfred’s mother is actually a really great cook.

“Hey, mom?” America asks once he’s finished chewing. She looks up from her plate to meet his eyes.

“Yes?” 

“I know it’s hard to do everything yourself, especially ‘cuz I can’t drive,” America says. He should get Alfred his license, or at least buy the boy a bike. Because of the house size and the fact that Alfred’s mother works overtime more often than not, he’s assuming money’s tight. “So I just wanna say thank you.”

“Aw, Alfred,” she coos as she reaches across the table to squeeze his cheek. “I wouldn’t change a thing. I have a perfect son and a good job, that’s all I can ask for.”

America smiles at her. “After I take a hot shower, wanna watch a movie? I heard _Love, Simon_ is really good.”

“Of course,” Alfred’s mother says with a knowing smile. She picks up the plates and puts them in the sink. America starts heading upstairs “We’re not staying up too late though, we have yoga at six in the morning!” 

“Six!?” America whines. Alfred’s mom laughs, and America pouts his way to the bathroom and gently closes the door.

No matter how upset he is over his Friday being ruined, he isn’t going to go around the house slamming doors like an animal. 

He undresses and turns on the water for the shower, waiting for it to warm up. As he waits, he stares in the mirror and carefully touches the abused skin. Jeez, Jeremy and the boys really did a number on him. It’s barely noticeable, but he can see the beginnings of a light blue hue on his ribs, and it makes him wince when he applies even the smallest bit of pressure.

“Dickheads,” he mutters. America’s never had to deal with any sort of human scale of pain, but when he accidentally elbowed Obama a while back during a basketball game and the man had to get stitches, he knows pain lasts a while. And he’s not looking forward to dealing with that.

After a dreadfully hot shower that felt like being dipped into lava over and over again, America joins Alfred’s mother on the couch. She’s made a bowl of popcorn drizzled with chocolate syrup and candy tossed in. America grins at the sight of the snack, and she mimes zipping her lips as she winks at him.

America sits side by side with her, happily munching away as the movie plays. At the silence, America's mind goes into overdrive, and he can't help but blurt out a question he's been wondering since the first day.

“Where do you think dad is?” he asks quietly. If Alfred’s dad is dead, she’ll answer heaven or something. If he’s in the military, she’ll just think he means which country. He’s positive he’s worded this perfectly, unlike his Arthur screw up.

“I don’t know.” She sighs, hand threading through her hair. “I know we don't talk about him a lot, and I owe you more than “he left a long time ago.” But it brings up bad memories. I’m sorry–” she bites her lip and looks away. America frowns and pauses the movie.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says. “I don’t need to know about him. You did a better job raising A–me better than he ever could. Trust me.”

She gives him a watery smile, and America feels his own eyes begin to get misty.

Before she can say more, America gives her a tight hug. He’s heard more than he should, and once again this is a conversation Alfred needs to have with his mom. But hey, at least he’s planted the seeds for the coming out part by watching this gay movie with her. She totally cries throughout the whole thing, too. Alfred should have no problem.

America heads to bed shortly after the movie finishes, feeling exhausted. He’s dreading tomorrow, but also can’t help but feel excited. If everything goes to plan with Arthur, he’ll be able to finally meet the boy whose life he stole. By accident, of course.

•••

Alfred’s mom cuts the yoga session ten minutes short, because she finally notices the silent tears streaming down America’s face. He’s been crying since the five minute mark, because holy  _ fuck _ his body is screaming at him and everything hurts, but his stubborn pride wouldn’t let him give in. Alfred’s mom apologizes profusely, but America just smiles through the pain and waves her off.

To be honest, the carb filled breakfast she promises mid-hysterics is what really cheers him up. He gets dressed in pretty much the same clothes he’s had on all week, subtly sniffing the letterman. It passes the smell test so he shrugs and keeps it on.

After a deliciously unhealthy breakfast, America mentally preps himself as he takes a deep breath. “Hey, mom?”

“Yeah Alfie?” she answers, putting on her shoes. America gives her his best puppy dog face.

“Can I please take the car to school?” he asks sweetly.

“But, you still haven’t passed the test…” He sees her resolve breaking, so he ups the ante.

“Mom, you deserve to sleep in. It’s your day off! I can do it, I promise.” He bats his eyelashes, jutting out his lower lip to pout cutely. She sighs loudly and hands him the keys.

“You’re ridiculous. Please don’t crash or go over the speed limit,” she instructs. America grins as he takes the keys, then hugs her tightly. It’s probably going to be the last time he ever sees this woman, and he needs to cherish one last motherly embrace before he goes. 

“Bye mom. Love you,” he says quietly, and doesn’t bother grabbing his backpack. He hears her calling after him, but he quickly gets into the 2009 Jeep and starts the engine, driving to school. He knows he’s not going to need his backpack, because he isn’t planning to stay in school longer than twenty minutes.

America gets to the high school in a record time of five minutes, because he’s a man on a mission. He parks in the lot and rushes into the building, ignoring everyone that tries to get his attention. Once he spots the familiar green hair among the sea of students, America sighs in relief. 

_ Step one, done. Now onto step two. _

“Arthur!” he yells, pushing past people to get to the punk. Arthur freezes at the sound of his name, but then quickly picks up his pace.

“Fuck off, Jones,” Arthur yells back. With those fighting words, it seems like every eye in the hallway is on them. America even hears a kid whisper “Worldstar” as they pull out their phone. 

America runs to catch up to Arthur, and grins innocently at the disapproving head shakes from the teachers. They make no move to give him detention, so he continues. “Artie, c’mon dude, we need to talk!”

Arthur throws up two fingers at him in return, and America huffs at the tosser gesture.  _ Guess things for step two are gonna have to go down the hard way. _

America grabs Arthur’s wrist and pulls him into the supply closet, slamming him against the door. The light is dim, but Arthur’s anger at being manhandled is clear by the glare on his face.

“What the hell, Jones?” Arthur says, trying to shake out of America’s grip. “Do you not understand the meaning of “fuck off”? I said leave me alone!”

“Arthur, you have to listen to me,” America says, trying to calm the punk down but Arthur keeps thrashing around, refusing to meet his eyes.

“No! You’re a prick, I can’t believe I wasted my time loving you and planning a future with you, what a fucking–” 

America sighs as he tunes out Arthur’s rant. He knows one way to shut him up, and winces inwardly.  _ Sorry, Alfred. _

America grips Arthur’s shoulders to pin him against the door, and cuts Arthur off by pressing their lips together.  Arthur exhales through his nose harshly and America feels him tense up, before completely relaxing in his grip as he presses his body up against America’s, returning the kiss with passion.

America pulls away from the kiss, keeping his grip on Arthur tight. He can’t have the punk bolt after all that. “Just let me talk, alright?” he whispers. 

The British boy licks his lips, then nods hesitantly. America smiles brightly at the lack of resistance. “I never cheated on you. My words came out wrong on Monday.”

“What did you mean then?” Arthur asks curiously.

“When I said I’m not the Alfred you know, I meant it literally dude. I’m not Alfred,” America explains. At Arthur’s dumbfounded look, he laughs nervously. “This is gonna sound crazy. My name’s America, like the country. I am the personification of the United States. Other countries exist too, you actually kinda look like one.”

“England?” Arthur guesses dryly. America gasps.

“Dude. How’d you know?”

“A lucky guess, you himbo. Go on,” Arthur says, staring into his eyes. America matches his gaze unwaveringly, and continues.

“So basically I was really sad and having a bad day and I told Tony–my alien friend–that I wanted to be a human. So he switched me and Alfred. But good news it’s totally reversible, I think, so you should have your boyfriend back in no time! Please un-breakup with him,” America begs. 

“You do realize you sound like you’re on drugs, right?” Arthur asks. America pouts, but reluctantly nods. He does sound crazy. Arthur studies his face, then sighs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. I actually believe you.”

“Seriously?” America grins. 

“Firstly, when Alfred lies he can’t meet my eyes. He starts shifting and blinking. The entire time you were able to look at me.” Arthur smirks. “Secondly, in no universe is Alfred ever good at American history or English. He’s a maths and science kid all the way. Finally, you’re a better kisser than him.”

“I’ve been told I do have skills,” America says, wiggling his eyebrows. Arthur laughs at his antics.

“I have a feeling I just accidentally fed your already gigantic ego. I don’t really believe that whole country shite and alien friend, but you’re definitely not my Alfred.” 

“Do you wanna believe the country stuff and meet Tony? I can take you to where Alfred is!” 

“You stole his mum’s car? And you wanna skip school? Yep, now I’m even more sure you’re not him,” Arthur teases. “I never turn down an opportunity to escape this hellhole. Let’s go.”

America and Arthur leave the closet, the hallway now thankfully empty. The bell must have rang while they were talking. Or kissing. He really hopes Alfred doesn’t get too mad at that. They creep past the row of lockers, and stand right in front of the entrance doors.

“Where are you kids running off to?” the security guard asks from behind them, right as they’re about to make a run for it.

America thinks back to what Arthur said. Alfred’s a goody two shoes dork, he can work this in his favor. “You know I never cut school, sir. I just really wanted to get the newest edition of the Batman comics that drop today! Artie’s driving me ‘cuz I still don’t have my license.”

The security guard stays silent, scrutinizing the pair. Finally, he nods slightly. “Only this once, Jones.”

America pumps his fist and runs out, Arthur close behind. “God, you get away with everything,” the punk complains.

“Oh, you have no idea,” America says with a wink. “You ever been to Manhattan, Artie?”

“No, actually,” Arthur says with a slight smile, then he opens the door to get into the passenger seat. America hands him the aux cord and starts the engine, Arthur slamming the door shut.

The pair are quiet for a moment while Paint It, Black plays through the speakers. America whistles casually, then smirks over at Arthur. “Better kisser, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” Arthur says with a chuckle. “I could tell that you have more experience, that’s all it is! It honestly supported my cheating theory.”

America makes kissy faces at Arthur, laughing loudly as the boy slaps his thigh. “Eyes on the road, you twit.”

•••

“...and that’s how I think we can slow down obesity, while also working to stop world hunger altogether. Any questions?” Alfred asks the room, all of which are shocked. Even France, England, and Canada look stunned, as if they forget he’s not America in the four days it's been since he told them. “Okay. No questions. Cool–”

There’s a knock on the door, and Alfred raises an eyebrow. 

“Did someone order takeout to the meeting room again?” Germany asks with a sigh, turning an accusing gaze towards his brother. 

“Wasn’t me this time, I swear.” Prussia holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, I’m coming in!” an almost familiar voice calls out, and Alfred feels himself turn pale. 

“That’s…” Alfred grips the papers he’s holding, staring at the door. 

“Al–America?” England asks. “Are you alright?”

The door swings open and Alfred gasps at the sight of himself. It’s such a weird feeling to see you, not in front of a mirror. He's so stunned he almost misses Arthur next to his original body. 

“You know what?” Arthur says, once his study of Alfred is complete. “I’m quite into the dad bod you’re rocking.” 

“I am pretty handsome,” America brags. Then clears his throat. “Uh, Mr. America. We’re the President’s friends and there’s word that you’re needed at office. So can you please join us?”

“I’ll drive him,” England's quick to say, clearly catching on. France and Canada also stand to join the British nation, as well as Alfred, though he's still silent.

“What the–?” Austria asks, but all six people are already out of the door.

“I mean. At least America gave a really informative presentation for once? He didn’t mention heroes at all, this has to be a record,” Spain says, smiling.

“I just asked for one day. Just one day of productivity,” Germany says to himself.


	6. America vs American

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America and Alfred meet, finally. Also, England really can’t stand this punk version of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you guys! It's been a while, and that's entirely my fault. Next chapter is the last, and of course we have the omake as the 8th chapter. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for 100 kudos! :DD

Outside of the meeting room, everyone’s silent for a moment as they size one another up. Finally, Alfred and Arthur move at the same time and hug each other tightly. America and England look at the two and then at each other, before quickly looking away.

France and Canada watch the sight, the former with a smirk and the latter with a sigh. Same shit, different day.

“I missed you so much,” Alfred whispers, and Arthur smiles into his neck. 

“I missed you too,” Arthur murmurs, then grins as he squeezes Alfred’s ass. “Not used to you being this tall, or thick. I do like it, I won’t lie.”

England makes a face at the scene, clearly unhappy with the punk feeling up what is technically America’s body. “Alright, enough of that.” He pulls Alfred away, causing the teenager to pout at him. Arthur crosses his arms and glares at the man, who stands just slightly taller than him.

“Is this England?” Arthur asks America, who nods. Arthur looks England up and down, then scoffs. “You really compared me to this stodgy prick, America? We’re nothing alike.”

America presses his lips together hard, clearly holding in a laugh. 

“Artie, you can’t insult him! He’s like, the embodiment of your country or something,” Alfred says, then sheepishly looks at Canada and France with a grin. “I gotta be honest dudes, I still don’t understand how personifications work.”

The countries nod in understanding. They don’t really get it either.

Arthur merely shrugs in response. “I could give two shits if I’m insulting the Queen herself. At least I get my brows waxed.”

France blinks in surprise at the brashness from the green haired boy, then guffaws. Canada cringes, and glances at England for his reaction.

England doesn’t disappoint: he glares at Arthur with a sharp scowl. “Your stupid, shite hair makes you look like a right twat.”

Arthur looks offended for a brief moment, before squinting. “Oh, yeah? Well. You’re a tory, mate.”

England gasps. “I am  _ not _ a tory!”

“Look at the way you’re dressed! That screams tory if I’ve ever seen one.” Arthur points at the stiff suit. “I just know you voted to leave the EU.” 

“I don’t know what a tory is, but it’s making Angeleterre burst a blood vessel so I am all for this,” France joins in with a grin. England punches his arm, glaring.

“Stay out of this, frog.”

America finally bursts out laughing, and it sounds so much like his usual self that England can’t even retort. He wipes his eyes, then grins. “Man, I missed this.”

“We missed you, Am,” Canada says with a smile. America looks at the three and smiles slightly. He finally looks at Alfred, and holds out his fist.

“Sup, dude?” America grins fully when Alfred bumps their fists together. “Let’s talk more in the car, alright? I know you probably wanna be normal again, huh?” he asks knowingly, and Alfred shrugs, looking almost bashful.

“How’re we getting to your house?” Alfred asks. “I uber’d here.”

“Dude, you really need your license. I’ve been driving since cars were invented,” America brags with a smirk. 

“Parallel parking is hard!” Alfred complains, and the two walk side by side as they head outside of the building.

“So. How old are you lot?” Arthur asks the group of nations once in front of the car. 

“We’re countries. How old do you think we are?” England asks sarcastically, clearly still miffed about the tory and eyebrow comments.

“Hm.” Arthur pulls out a pack of cigarettes and offers it to everyone, and England begrudgingly takes one with a muttered ‘thanks’. “America, I get the aux for the entire ride.”

“Don’t trust our taste?” France asks with a chuckle, politely declining the cigarettes. 

“I imagine you geezers listen to Mozart,” Arthur drawls, smirking at England. 

The British nation rolls his eyes and grumbles to himself. Arthur closes the pack and puts it back into his pocket and pats his other one, frowning. England takes out his own lighter and lights both of their cigarettes.

“They’re totally alike,” America whispers, and Alfred nods. “You don’t smoke little dude?”

“Nah. I juul,” Alfred says. At America’s confusion, he laughs. “It’s healthier than cigarettes, but still has nicotine. It’s like this little, thin black rectangular box. It comes in tons of flavors too.”

“Oh!” America gasps in realization. “I was wondering what all that stuff was hidden under your bed.”

Alfred laughs nervously, and starts shifting from foot to foot. “Hah, yeah. My mom would kick my ass if she knew I was doing that, so I try to hide it. I wanna quit though. But, uh, since you went under my bed we’re even and you can’t be mad at me.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Alfred pats America’s shoulder. “Let’s dip.” 

France and Canada walk over to the car as Arthur and England continue their silent smoking session.

“I don’t think we’re all going to fit,” France says as he gestures to the five seats, then to the group of six.

“You guys go on ahead, I drove here.” Canada takes out his keys with a smile. “I’ll meet you at Meri’s house.”

“You can let yourself in, you know where the spare is,” America says and gives him a thumbs up. Canada nods and walks down the block, just as Arthur and England finally join the group in front of Alfred’s car.

“How’d you get my mom to give you her baby, anyways?” Alfred asks, getting into the passenger seat.

“My irresistible puppy dog face, duh,” America answers as he hops into the car. 

Arthur sits behind the driver’s seat, and France tries to take the seat behind Alfred in the back, but England shoves him into the middle.

America hands the aux cord to Arthur and then starts the car. Arthur inserts the end of the cord into his phone, and America turns on the radio.

England squints as the song begins to play, and Arthur gives him an accusing look.

“Don’t like rock?” Arthur asks, and England shakes his head.

“No, no, I definitely know this song,” England murmurs, deep in thought. He bobs his head to the beat slightly, and Arthur watches him.

Alfred crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. America taps his fingers against the steering wheel and hums, and France pouts.

“I hate this one,” France complains. He’s ignored, which makes him pout harder.

“I need your touch, don't need your love, ooh whoa!” Arthur and England sing at the same time, actually both in tune. They look at each other in shock for a brief moment, then their eyes light up. 

They lean towards each other as they continue singing, squishing France even further in the middle seat and causing him to look absolutely miserable. 

“And I want!” Arthur grins, pointing at England.

“And I need!” England grins right back at him, looking oddly youthful in the moment.

“And I lust… Animal!” They sing together.

America smiles at England in the rearview mirror, then glances towards the passenger seat at Alfred. He laughs at the boy’s huff. “Not a fan of the classics?”

“It’s too slow for me. You should put on Ski Mask!” Alfred says.

“Like, the clothing item?” America asks, confused. Alfred gasps.

“Dude, you haven’t heard of Ski Mask the Slump God? I’m about to put you onto some good music, then. Babe, can I get the aux?” Alfred looks over his shoulder and holds out his hand with a cute grin. Arthur heaves an exaggerated sigh and unplugs the cord from his phone, then hands it to Alfred. “Can I get my phone, America?” Alfred asks.

“We’ll swap phones at my place,” America says. “Just use mine. I have Spotify and Apple music.”

“Weird flex but okay,” Alfred jokes and plugs it into America’s phone. He’s quick to hide the cracked screen from the nation, and turns up the volume on the radio as he presses play on the song he wants.

The bass from the speakers being at full volume causes the entire car to vibrate, and France covers his ears.

“FUCKED UP! FUCKED UP! FUCKED UP!” Alfred chants, bouncing in his seat as he pumps his fist. 

“Sacré bleu! This is even worse!” France whines.

“He listens to this  _ all _ the time,” Arthur complains in vain, completely unphased. In fact, his facial expression is actually quite fond as he watches Alfred bounce up and down. 

“George W. Bush right on her pussy,” Alfred sings along, and England’s had enough.

The British nation snatches the phone from the boy’s unsuspecting hand. 

“Hey! No fair!” Alfred pouts once the song is changed.

“That was completely by accident,” England lies as another song starts playing, and America immediately perks up. 

“Iggy! This is our song!” He grins and rolls down the window, resting his elbow on the newly freed space. 

Arthur opens his mouth, but stops and watches England’s face soften, then smirks. “I guess we do have things in common, huh? Sorry for calling you a tory, mate.” He punches England’s shoulder lightly. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” England says unconvincingly as he rubs his shoulder. 

“Come on Eileen, oh I swear well he means,” America sings, then turns around to face England, pointing at him with that charming smile on his face. “At this moment, you mean everything!”

A car horn honks behind them and France grips onto Arthur and England’s legs as America swerves the car nearly into oncoming traffic.

“Whoops! Sorry dudes,” he says with a laugh. 

“Mon Dieu, I should’ve gone in the car with Canada,” France mumbles, getting paler with every passing second.

•••

They manage to arrive safe and sound at America’s house, despite France thinking that car would be his final resting place. Canada’s already inside the house once they walk in, looking appreciatively at the pictures Alfred had hung up a few days ago.

“Aw, dude!” America grins as he rushes over to a wall and pushes Canada out of the way, carefully holding the picture frame in his hands. It’s a group photo of the Allies, taken right when America had joined the war. “I forgot I even had this.”

“That looks old,” Arthur muses as he peeks over America’s shoulder. “I have to be quite honest, I didn’t really believe that whole country personification bit.”

“I have a whole storage closet of memories I can show you both,” America says, and releases his grip on the picture frame. “Alright, pass me my phone Alfred! I’ll call Tony and get him over here to switch us.”

America holds out Alfred’s phone with a smile, waiting.

As soon as he says it, the three other countries cringe. Alfred laughs nervously and takes his phone back from America, then slowly hands over the cracked golden iPhone. America stares at it, jaw dropping.

“What the heck happened to my phone?” America asks, wincing as he inspects every crack. 

“This won’t be good,” Canada mumbles. France nods in agreement.

“Uh,” Alfred starts, then coughs as he gives America a hopeful grin. “I didn’t realize your body had super strength. And I got really mad that I was stuck in your body…” he trails off at America’s unamused scowl.

“Do you know how much this cost, dude? I’m already in debt!” America clenches his fist and glares up at Alfred.

Alfred squares his jaw and stares back down at him, waiting to be punched. The air is tense for a moment, and then–

“This is kind of hot. I hope they mud wrestle naked,” Arthur comments.

Just like that, the tension is broken. America unclenches his fist and Alfred sighs in relief, sending out a silent thanks to his minx of a boyfriend.

“I like the way you think,” France says to Arthur, eyes twinkling. “I was hoping the same.”

“You’re both mad,” England says with a shake of his head. “They look nearly identical!”

“You wouldn’t have sex with your clone, mon ami?” France asks. England and Arthur glance at each other at the same time; Arthur winks and England begins to fake gag.

“Christ, no.” England crosses his arms, willing the embarrassed flush on his cheeks to go away.

“You’re missing out, love. Our hate sex would be a blast,” Arthur teases. 

“Tony’s on his way,” America announces as he looks up from his phone and towards Alfred, still angry about his phone. “By the way dude, the only reason I didn’t punch you is because you’re in  _ my _ body.”

“Thanks I guess?” Alfred says, raising an eyebrow.

“Also, we’re kinda even.” America looks to Arthur, who starts whistling suspiciously.

“Even how?” Alfred asks, confused with the duo’s guilty expressions. 

“Imayhavekissedyourboyfriendtwice,” America says quickly. Alfred still looks confused, but England scowls.

“You kissed this twat  _ twice _ ?” England asks angrily, ignoring Arthur’s “Oi!” in response. Alfred gasps, then glares at America.

“You kissed my boyfriend?” Alfred grips America’s shirt as he lifts the shorter man off of the floor.

America starts squirming and wiggling in Alfred’s grip, clearly uncomfortable with someone being able to pick him up to threaten him.

“The first time was all him, I swear! The second was only because he wouldn’t listen to me, and I needed to hurry!” America holds up his hands in surrender.

“You didn’t need to bloody plant one on him! You could’ve done literally  _ anything else  _ to make him listen!” England grits his teeth.

“I get why Alfred’s mad,” Arthur starts and smirks at England. “But why are  _ you _ ?”

As England sputters for an excuse while America looks at him curiously; a small, lithe, gray alien appears in between the two. Alfred screams and quickly releases America to cower behind Arthur, and America grins in relief at the extra terrestrial.

“Fucking bitch fuck?” it asks. 

Alfred looks terrified, and Arthur’s mildly intrigued.

England’s mood has considerably worsened with the presence of his least favorite supernatural creature, as evident by the deepening scowl on his face.

“I’m better now man, thank you.” America gives the gray alien a hug, and Alfred stares in fear as America brings Tony closer to himself and Arthur. “Artie, Alfred, meet Tony! My bestest friend in the universe!”

“Can it not speak English?” Arthur asks.

“Limey cunt,” Tony responds. England rolls his eyes, and Arthur barks out a laugh in surprise.

“Why’d you call him Artie?” Alfred asks with a slight sneer, momentarily forgetting the alien in the room. 

“I give nicknames to everyone. I don’t have the hots for your boyfriend dude, cross my heart,” America promises with a chuckle. Alfred squints at him suspiciously, until Tony makes what appears to be a ray gun appear in his hand.

“IS HE GONNA SHOOT ME?” Alfred panics. 

“Yeah,” America says like the intellect he is. Alfred whimpers and covers his face, while Canada glares at his brother.

“America! Don’t scare the poor kid!” Canada scolds him, then turns to Alfred to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Tony won’t kill you, Alfred.”

“Why’s he have a gun?” Alfred asks warily.

“Bitch fuck,” Tony says and holds up the bright purple gun. 

“He said it’s what he shot us with to switch our bodies. Duh,” America explains as if he isn’t the  _ only _ person on Earth that can understand Tony’s interesting dialect. “But don’t worry, he promised me it’s painless and fast.” 

Tony gestures with the gun for the two Americans to move into the living room, away from the other nations and Arthur. It’s almost hilariously similar to a messed up hostage situation. 

America grabs Alfred’s wrist and drags the teenager to the designated corner, grunting.

“Man, I’m heavy,” America mutters. Alfred smirks at him, purposely planting his feet more into the ground to make America work harder.

“I can give you my workout regiment along with a diet plan,” Alfred offers. America makes a face and shakes his head.

Tony adjusts the dial and shoots at them, lilac sparkles surrounding the duo. The spectators are forced to shut their eyes due to the harsh light the sparkles produce, but within a flash it’s gone, and both drop to their floor, unconscious.

“What did you do!?” England growls, stomping over to Tony. Tony glares up at him.

“They’ll wake up soon,” Tony says in perfect English. England gapes, stuttering from outrage. 

“You–This whole time, you could bloody speak English?” England grits out. Instead of answering, Tony flips him off and vanishes.

“Can you believe him? The nerve of that little pest!” England says, throwing his hands up in the air. 

Arthur kneels besides Alfred’s sleeping body, combing his fingers through the other’s hair. “I can’t believe I saw a real life alien and all it did was call me a limey cunt,” he says with a laugh. “Or that countries as people exist. I’m still iffy about that one, however.”

“I can assure you, we’re real. I don’t know how or why,” France says, then shrugs. “We can answer questions you have if you want to test us?”

“No, I’ll wait for America to wake up. I want to see his storage closet,” Arthur says. He smirks at England’s loud huff. “Something the matter, love?”

“I don’t particularly care for the familiarity between the two of you,” England admits begrudgingly, much to the amusement of everyone else conscious in the room. 

“Hell must have frozen over for cher Angleterre to admit his feelings,” France purrs teasingly, and England shoves him away.

“Are you going to actually do anything about it?” Canada asks. 

“Well,” England starts, but is interrupted by Alfred and America gasping awake at the same time. Arthur pauses his ministrations in Alfred’s hair as the teen sits up, wincing. 

“I feel like I got hit by a freight train,” Alfred moans, rubbing his sides.

“Sorry dude, football practice was killer.” America cracks his neck and stretches his arms over his head.

They both stop and stare at each other, then burst into identical grins.

“WE’RE BACK IN OUR BODIES!” they say at the same time, and hug one another tightly. Once they let go, Alfred immediately hops up on his feet and touches his face, sighing in relief at the lack of stubble.

“I never thought I’d feel this good about being over six feet and having bad vision again,” America jokes as he adjusts his glasses.

America stands much slower, smiling at Alfred and Arthur who are embracing each other, faces buried in the others neck. America glances at England, and smiles brighter once he sees the older nation is stepping closer to him. “Hey, Iggy. Do I get a–”

England promptly smacks him across the face. Canada’s eyes widen, France covers his mouth, and the two teenagers lift their heads at the sound to stare at the sight, both looking extremely intrigued. 

High schoolers do  _ love _ drama.

America cups his cheek, looking at England in complete shock. “The hell, dude? What was that for?”

“That’s for never sending any of those letters!” England glares at him.

“Letters? Wha–” America asks, and the realization hits him like a ton of bricks. “YOU SHOWED HIM MY MEMORIES BOX?” He glares at Alfred, who gulps. 

“See? We’re totally even for you kissing my boyfriend!” Alfred says nervously.

“Okay, now that I’m back in my body, I’m kicking your–” America is stopped by England smacking him again. He clenches his jaw and turns back to England. “Can you chill, old man! Jeez,” America says with a pout as he rubs his cheeks. 

“You stupid fool. We could’ve been together for nearly a century!” England yells. America blinks, a starstruck expression on his face.

“You mean…?” America trails off hopefully. England smiles slightly and that’s all the confirmation America needs. 

He opens his arms and England jumps into them, wrapping his legs around America’s waist and arms around his neck. They both move in at the same time and accidentally bump noses, causing both to pull back while laughing. After the chuckles die down, they smile softly at each other, then tilt their heads and go back for the kiss, pressing their lips against each other.

“I never thought this day would happen,” France muses. Canada nods in agreement. 

“See, take notes on how America kisses, because he was  _ slightly _ better than you,” Arthur teases, and Alfred pouts at him.

“Jerk. You’re my first boyfriend ever, this guy’s been alive for four hundred years! I’m allowed to be inexperienced compared to him.” Alfred huffs and crosses his arms, ignoring Arthur’s laughter.

However, America and England don’t stop after one kiss. In fact, England’s hands–which were previously mussing up America’s hair–move down his shoulders and chest, pushing off the bomber jacket and ripping his white button up open.

“Guys?” Canada asks worriedly. The two ignore him, which he’s sadly used to.

Alfred gets smacked in the face by England’s tie, and is grateful for the temporary blindness so he doesn’t have to see America groping England’s ass.

“Uh. Can me and Artie leave now?” Alfred asks, and gets no response from America and England, who have not disconnected for air a single time. Maybe nations don’t need to breathe? Oh, who cares about that right now.  _ He wants to go home!  _

“You know what? I’m disengaging before I need therapy,” Canada decides, and quickly exits the house. Alfred pouts at his backside.

“Man, c’mon, this is weird. I don’t wanna watch the dude that looks like me and the dude that looks like my boyfriend bang in the middle of the living room WHERE EVERYONE CAN SEE THEM!” Alfred shouts, whining only a little bit.

“Shhhh, you’re ruining the show.” France shushes him.

France’s quip finally makes England pull away, leaving America to stare at him with an awed, lovesick expression, lips bruised and glistening with spit. “Fuck off France, make yourself useful and drive the kids home.”

“Oi, just because we’re a millenia younger than you lot doesn’t mean we’re kids! Besides, I wanted to see the storage closet,” Arthur says, but Alfred sees his boyfriend’s lip quirk into a half grin.  _ Oh, he wants to be difficult.  _ Alfred smiles slightly and shakes his head.

Arthur’s attempt at pissing off England is to no avail. England’s attention is already back on America, as he trails kisses and bites down the tan skin of the taller nation, America’s head lolling back to give England more room. 

France sighs, and takes one last look at them before he places his hands on Arthur and Alfred’s shoulders. “Come, mes amis. I’ll drive you home.” 

As he leads them out of the house, Alfred lags behind. He hears one of them pant, and thinks  _ God this is so weird _ , but before he can bolt he hears a quiet, 

“I love you so much.” 

With that, Alfred smiles and picks up his pace to join France and Arthur.

_ You’re welcome, America. _

•••

In the car ride, Alfred and Arthur rest their heads against each other, hands intertwined. Alfred watches Arthur’s expression, and bites his lip.

“Was he really a lot better than me?” Alfred asks, insecurity creeping in his voice.

“Hm?” Arthur asks. “Oh! He was experienced, sure, but he wasn’t  _ you. _ It didn’t feel right, you know?”

Alfred smiles in relief.“You should stay over tonight. Maybe we can…” he starts, then swallows nervously. “Maybe we can tell my mom tonight?”

“Are you sure you want that?” Arthur asks, squeezing his hand. “I don’t mind waiting for you to be comfortable, Alfred.”

“I love you.” Alfred kisses Arthur’s forehead. “I still want you to sleepover, even if we don’t tell her. And on Monday, I’ll give you my letterman to wear.”

“You’d give up your letterman for  _ me? _ Wow, I must be special,” Arthur says with a grin. “You  _ do _ know what everyone will think if I wear it though, right?”

“Yeah, but I don’t care about them. As long as I have you and my mom, I’m good,” Alfred says, and Arthur smiles at him and pecks his lips.

France glances in the mirror at them, humming in content with a smile of his own. For once, America’s impulsive decision ended with everyone happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review! <3


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